


morning writing prompts

by quiettewandering



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-03-07 17:04:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18877447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiettewandering/pseuds/quiettewandering
Summary: A collection of destiel writing prompts that I am doing on my tumblr as a writing exercise. not meant to be amazing works of art, but I'm keeping them on my archive to track my progress.1 chapter = 1 prompt. brief description at the beginning of each.





	1. coffee shop confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon prompt: “I’m so glad it’s you.”
> 
> in other words: the coffeeshop au that no one asked for.

“Another one for you, Winchester,” Charlie calls across the tables with a wink. She waves the flimsy note between her fingers high above her head. _  
_

Dean drops his forehead against the counter and groans.

The notes have been non-stop since February. Every day, some secret admirer would leave a note tucked into the remains of a croissant, a coffee cup, a napkin holder—secret places that Charlie now found malicious glee searching for whenever she wiped down the tables.

Dean wasn’t complaining—at first. The small cafe tucked into an only marginally larger quiet town never gets a lot of excitement. At first the notes were cute. He has a whole drawer for them in his desk, next to the receipts.

But the notes have run their cute course, and have just become frustrating.

“It’s on pink stationary, this time,” Charlie announces, smacking the piece of paper on the counter next to Dean’s head. “It’s cute how they change colors every week.”

“This is just getting ridiculous,” Dean groans into the counter. He yelps when he feels something smack the back of his ass.

“Get your damn face off the countertop,” Bobby snaps as he walks past, rolling up the towel and poising to hit Dean again. “We serve food there.”

“He’s upset about the notes,” Charlie explains.

Bobby grunts, “Those still happenin’?”

“Yup. And Dean’s grumpy about it.”

“Why the hell are you complaining about someone having a crush on you?” Bobby demands.

“Because I don’t know who he or she is!” Dean exclaims. He straightens, scrubs his hands over his face. “They always leave the notes at the peak hours in the morning. They never give me any indication who they could be. They even keep changing their handwriting, for fuck’s sake.”

“They’re just probably really shy,” Charlie says with a shrug.

“For  _three months_?”

The bell on the door announces someone’s arrival into the cafe. Bobby breaks away to go back to the kitchen, while Charlie looks busy bussing more tables.

Dean is prepared to paste on a fake smile; once he sees who it is, he realizes that he doesn’t have to. Instead a genuine grin spreads across his face as he says, “Hey, Cas.”

Cas tilts his head. Smiles. “Hello, Dean.”

“Your usual today?” Dean asks. His fingers are already punching in the order for a small black coffee and croissant into the register.

Adjusting his leather messenger bag’s strap on his shoulder, Cas nods. “Maybe to-go, this time? I’m late for my lecture.”

“You’re always late, though,” Dean says with a wink. “Aren’t your students expecting it by now?”

Cas huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re right. And I doubt they’d mind a lecture on annihilationism being delayed by a few minutes.”

Dean whistles. “Fun topic.”

“Indeed.” Cas hands Dean the cash; Dean puts it right into the till. He stopped counting it months ago.

Dean props his hip against the counter as he pours the coffee in a to-go cup. He squints out the window, at the quiet street and mailman walking past. “So, you having a good semester?” he asks to fill the silence. The silence continues, so he turns his head. “Cas?”

Cas is staring at the pink note on the counter, the one that Dean realizes in a split second that he forgot to put away. Hastily setting the styrofoam cup down, coffee sloshing over the sides, Dean scrambles to scoop the note up. He shoves it into his pocket. “Oh, that’s uh… that’s nothing.”

“A love note?” Cas asks, even though it’s not a question.

“Yeah, just some secret admirer.” Dean can feel the heat rising to his cheeks. He slams a plastic top onto the coffee cup and slides it across the counter into Cas’ hands.

Cas frowns at the spot where the note was. “Is it… upsetting?”

“Huh?”

“Upsetting. You seem upset.”

“Oh, uh.” Dean puts a hand on the back of his neck, hoping it’ll cool the blush that’s forming there. “No, I’m not upset. Just annoyed, I guess.”

“Why?”

At the intensely inquisitive blue stare that Cas is giving him, Dean can’t help but be honest. “It’s just frustrating, I dunno. I’ve been getting these notes for months and I have no idea who’s giving them to me. If the person isn’t gonna come forward, the notes might as well just stop.”

Cas nods. He’s fiddling with the rim of his coffee cup. “I see.”

It’s Dean’s naturally awkward nature that has him continuing, “It’s not like I don’t mind being admired, I guess, it’s just—”

“I have to go,” Cas suddenly blurts out.

Dean freezes. “Oh. Okay.”

“I’ll…” Cas raises a finger, like he’s going to say something else. Doesn’t. Instead he turns on his heel and takes long strides toward the exit, his trenchcoat flapping at his heels.

Dean stares after him, mouth agape. Charlie slides over and leans on her broom. “Well, we know one thing,” she says. “That admirer is probably leaving you notes instead of talking to you because you’re a disaster at flirting.”

“No one asked you,” Dean barks. He pretends to be busy with the till. He looks at Cas’ receipt, realizing belatedly that he never got his croissant.

* * * 

So it’s not like he outright wanted the notes to stop, but after that day of complaining about them, they stop coming.

At first Dean thinks it’s a mistake; maybe Charlie accidentally threw them away. She does clean tables really aggressively. But after a week of a noteless existence, it’s more than coincidence.

Cas doesn’t come as often for his daily coffee and croissant, either. Dean tries to tell himself that it doesn’t bother him—even as he’s finding himself less and less excited to come into work.

He’s cleaning the tables (not his job, technically, but he insisted on doing it after a week and a half of no love letters) when a woman comes through the door. She stands in the wake of the bell, eyes scanning the cafe hesitantly. When her eyes lock on Dean, she hones in on him like a homing beacon, walking toward him with new purpose.

Dean stands there and trepidly holds his washcloth in front of him.

“You’re Dean Winchester?” she asks.

“Uh. Yeah, who’s asking?”

She looks very serious. “I could tell it was you by the description of your eyes.”

Dean blinks. “The what-now?”

She holds out a folded-up piece of paper at arm’s length. “Here. It’s the last one.”

Dean would recognize that stationary anywhere; it’s the same light green as the first one he got on March 12th. “Are you my secret admirer?” he asks as he takes the note between his fingers.

“God, no,” she snorts. “I have a wife.”

“Then….”

“I’m here on a favor,” she explains. “And before you ask for who, I’m sworn to secrecy, so don’t even try.”

Dean reaches out a hand as she turns. “Hey, wait! Am I ever gonna know who it is? Or is this it, they just, stop sending notes and it’s done forever?”

She looks at him up and down; frowns. “From what I’m told, the notes were more annoying than appreciated. So it’s better that my little brother is saved the embarrassment and we all act like this just never happened.”

Dean gapes. Raises a finger. “Your little—”

Her eyes widen. “Shit.” She smacks her hand twice against her temple. “Goddamnit, this is why he never asks me for a favor,” she mutters as she turns on her heel and takes long strides toward the exit.

Dean hastily wipes his damp hands against his jeans before unfolding the note. He scans his eyes quickly over the text:

_Dear Dean,_

_I want to let you know that this is the last note I will be sending to you. It’s not because my feelings have subsided, or lessened, but because I know that it’s cowardly to hide behind anonymity like this.  The reason why I started writing these notes is because firstly, you deserve the affection, and secondly, because I didn’t think there was a chance with you if you knew who I really was. I realize now that it was unfair of me to keep you in the dark like this._

_One day, I will be brave enough to ask you on a real date. One day, I will be able to face the possibility of rejection. One day, I will be brave enough for you._

_Until then._

It takes Dean three reads and a full five minutes to comprehend it. He finally snaps from his reverie, running to the kitchen where Bobby and Charlie are arguing whether or not to put parsley in the chicken noodle soup.

“Guys,” he says breathlessly. They both turn to him. “Guys, I know who my secret admirer is.”

* * * 

Dean knows that he has to make it right. So he spends the whole weekend drafting up the best letter he can manage. It takes ten beers, two drunken phone calls to Sam (he was always better at words), Charlie coming over with Chinese food, and a last-minute rambly paragraph to finish off the note. He goes to work on Monday armed with the envelope and determination. He blasts Zeppelin while putting down chairs and opening the till and dusting counters. He flings open the door at the beginning of the cafe hours to let in the fresh morning air. He puts the envelope in the front pocket of his jeans so as not to chicken out when Cas comes at 11:10 AM for his usual coffee.

But then 11:11 rolls by. And 11:20. And 12:30. He ignores the sympathetic looks that Bobby gives him from the kitchen, ignores Sam’s numerous texts all asking different variations of “did you do it yet??”

Dean’s about to give up all hope, when two minutes before closing, the bell chimes someone’s arrival. He looks up from where he’s slumped against the counter.

Cas looks different in this lighting; Dean usually sees him in the mornings. His tie is more errant, his hair more wild, like he’s run his fingers through it countless times. He strides up to the counter, face contorted.

“Dean,” he starts. “I have to explain.”

“Me too,” Dean says.

“No, I need to apologize—”

“Seriously, Cas, it ain’t a big deal.”

“It is. My sister…” Fingers running through his hair, Cas continues, “She told me that you basically figured it out. And that—I’m just so mortified, Dean. You must think I’m a psychotic stalker, slipping in during busy hours and leaving notes, I can’t even begin to explain how sorry I am, I—”

“Cas.” Dean yanks out the letter from his front pocket, smacks it on the counter. “I wrote you one too.”

He blinks down at the envelope. “You wrote me one too,” he repeats.

“Yup.” Dean leans forward; tries to put on a charming smile even though his heart feels like it’s going to pump its way down to his shoes. “Listen, I didn’t mean what I said earlier; that the notes are annoying. What was annoying was not being able to talk to the person who kept leaving those notes; actually thank them or anything, you know?”

Cas works his jaw, like he wants to say something, but doesn’t know what.

“I just wanted to know who the hell could notice all those things about me,” Dean says. “Who was observant enough to talk about, what was it? ‘The way my green eyes sparkle in the morning light’.”

That gets a full-blown blush on Cas’ face. Dean decides that it’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen in his life. “That might have been… an over exaggeration—”

Dean taps the letter. “There’s plenty of exaggerations in here too, then,” he says. “‘Cause buddy, I wrote you the sappiest, most romantic piece of rambling poetry that I’ve ever done. I think it’ll just about make us even.”

“Even…?”

“Yeah. Even the playing field. Because now that we’ve both written ridiculous notes to each other, we can go ahead and do that ‘proper date’ you talked about.”

Cas’ face relaxes into a smile. “Oh.” He pulls the note across the counter; clutches it. “That sounds. Well, wonderful, actually.”

Dean grins. “Good. Cause I gotta say, Cas, when I figured out who was sending those notes—” He huffs out a laugh, shrugs, says to Cas’ brilliant smile, “I’ve just gotta say, I’m so glad it’s you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the [tumblr link](https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com/post/184787550079/anon-prompt-im-so-glad-its-you-in-other) to this post. Come say hi :)


	2. in bloom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @trenchcoatandfreckles prompt: “bucolic” or “bungalow”
> 
> in other words: cas moves to the idyllic countryside and meets dean winchester, who owns a garden shop down the road.

“So, where you gonna go?” asks Cas’ nosy, but well-meaning, landlord, holding out his hand.  

Cas drops the keys into his open palm. “Somewhere bucolic,” he replies.

Frank wrinkles his nose. “What is that, some kind of sickness?”

Cas picks up the remaining box off the floor, rendering the tiny apartment officially empty. “Sure,” he sighs.

“Well, good luck,” Frank says, wiping his hand on his jeans. “You were one of my best tennants. Hope the next tenant is as dead quiet as you. It was like a tomb in here the whole ten years you were renting, you know.”

“Well. Thank you. I think.” After a tentative handshake with Frank, Cas sees himself and his box of records out.

Two weeks ago, it seemed like a good idea. He was on his stiff couch, wine glass in hand, browsing available bungalows to rent in a rural part of New York that he’d never heard of before. His eyes scanned an available cottage: the honey wood floors, the tucked-in ceilings, the herbs dangling from the kitchen ceiling, sunlight streaming. He looked around his sterile, hyper-modernized studio apartment and there was no contest.

He sent an application for an available house to rent in the same breath that he sent a move-out notice to Frank.

The commute to his current job, of course, would be an hour’s train ride, compounded with the fifteen minute drive to the station. His sister Anna called him last week to inform him that he was possibly having a mid-life crisis.

Now with his apartment all boxed up, and sitting on a train with his box of records and the moving truck a day in front of him, Castiel is beginning to agree with her.

The bungalow Cas rented is nestled between two cherry blossom trees. He feels like he’s read about it in a book somewhere. There’s a daily farmer’s market a mile away, with another empty and unrented bungalow in between. Apart from that, he’s alone but for the birds and fields and sunshine.

He loves the isolation more than he should. He calls in sick to work the first week. Then the next. It morphs into him writing a truncated email to his boss announcing his resignation. He deactivates his email after that.

There’s enough in his savings to get him by, he assures a hysterical Anna over the phone after he breaks the news, and he’ll find a job closer to where he lives. (He again refuses to tell Anna his new address, knowing it’ll only end up in her showing up with a small army to drag him back to the city)

With his self-imposed free time, he starts a garden. The lofty dreams of cooking with fresh herbs and vegetables fill his mind for days, until he’s greeted morning after morning by empty soil with no sprouting green.

He gives up after a week. Googling nearby garden shops points him to the only one within a forty-mile radius: Winchester Hardware & Garden. He rides his bike a couple of miles down the dirt road, past the farmer’s market, to the small, unassuming green building that’s only slightly bigger than his own bungalow.

A bell obnoxiously announces his arrival as he pushes open the rusty screen door. He’s greeted with shelves upon shelves of sloppily organized garden supplies, seed packages, and planters. There’s a counter tucked into the corner with a cash register valiantly craning its neck up from the cluttered mess that surrounds it.

“Just a second!” calls a voice from somewhere amongst the shelves. There’s a crash that follows.

Castiel cranes his neck around one of the shelves, looking for the source of the commotion. “Do you need help?” he calls back.

“Nope, should be good,” assures the disembodied voice, “just this goddamn—” There’s no elaboration as another, louder, crash punctuates the end of the sentence.

Castiel stands awkwardly in the door frame, unsure of whether to help or flee a potential crime scene, when a tanned and dirty-blonde man rounds the corner. He’s clutching something white and pissed off in his arms.

“Sorry about that,” the man says, breathing heavily. He locks his arms tighter against the cat struggling in his arms. “Can I help you with something?”

Castiel stares at the cat. “Was that what all that banging was?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” The man playfully jostles the cat, eliciting a low meow. “She gets into the back of the shelves where all those dangerous tools are, and I have to make sure she doesn’t cut her own head off.”

Castiel doesn’t point out the issue of housing a cat in a store with dangerous tools in the first place. Instead: “I see.”

“Her name’s Fluffy,” the man offers.

“But she has no fur,” Castiel says as Fluffy proudly swishes her naked tail.

“Yeah. It’s hilarious.” The man grins. “My brother picked her up from the side of the road. Kid has a bleeding heart for helpless animals.” Fluffy is deposited on the counter, where she sits and glares; the man turns and crosses his arms. “So, anything you need?”

Castiel rips his gaze from the man’s very piercing, very green eyes. “Yes. I’m having a problem with my garden. I think it needs fertilizer.”

“Elaborate on your problem,” the man says.

“Well, nothing’s growing,” Castiel explains, trailing off uncertainly as the man once again disappears around a corner.

“Any pets?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

“Any pets,” the man says impatiently behind a shelf, “any pets that would get into your garden and eat stuff when you’re not looking.”

“Well… no. No pets. Although I was thinking of getting a cat.” Castiel glances at Fluffy, who is grooming a naked paw. “One with fur.”

The man barks out a laugh. He comes around the corner, holding a large box propped on his hip. “And you’ve been watering them? Pulling any weeds around them?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure that you’re not pulling the plants accidentally instead of the weeds?”

Castiel fixes the man a look. “I’m not that stupid.”

Raising a hand in surrender, the man says, “Hey, you’d be surprised the stories I get from other customers.” He deposits the box onto the counter. “Well, this should help—good old fashioned plant food. Works for most things you’re trying to grow.”

After doing a quick calculation of measurements in his head, Castiel decides, “I don’t think I’ll be able to take that today. I rode my bike here and I’m not sure I can fit the box anywhere…”

“Relax, the bags are inside.” The man pulls apart the box’s top and hoists out a much smaller bag, one that will undoubtedly fit into Castiel’s backpack. At Castiel’s confirming nod, the man rounds the corner and types a number into the ancient cash register. ‘Fluffy’ rubs against his hand, slowly the process. The register inexplicably dings. “It’ll be 25.50,” he announces.

Castiel fishes his wallet from his back pocket. “Do you take a credit card?”

“Yeah.” The man chews at the bottom of his lip, frowning down at Castiel’s fingers that are fumbling to get the credit card out of the tight wallet’s pockets. “You said you biked here?”

“Yes,” Castiel says amidst the struggle, “why?”

“Nah, just that… you can’t live very far from here, then?”

The credit card finally emancipated, Castiel hands it across the counter. He notes the dirt caked underneath the man’s fingernails as their hands brush. “I just began renting a house a few miles down the road. Just a week ago.”

The man grins. “You’re one of Benny’s tenants?”

“I think that was his name.”

“I know him. Nice guy. Runs a diner when he’s not landlording way too many properties.” The man slides the credit card through a small attachment on his phone, frowning again in a thoughtful way. “This might not work, you know.”

“The credit card?” Castiel asks.

“No, the plant food. This whole area used to be a swamp—so the soil sucks.” He pets Fluffy’s head distractedly. “So you might have to come back anyway.”

“I did notice that the soil was sandy,” Castiel agrees. “Should I… Buy anything else in lieu of this?”

The man rubs the back of his neck; Castiel is momentarily distracted by the way his fingers leave imperceptible tracks in his tightly trimmed blonde hair. “Well, if this doesn’t work, I’d have the examine the soil. See if the acidity is right, if the plants are getting enough sun, that kind of thing.”

“So you’d have to come over?” Castiel asks, taking the card that the man hands back to him.

“Well, yeah.” The man clears his throat. “To examine it, and everything.”

“That wouldn’t be too much trouble?”

The man sweeps his arm in the air to gesture to the quiet shop. “Well, I suppose you would be taking me away from my customers that so obviously need me.”

Castiel huffs a laugh. He tentatively holds the bag of plant food in his arms. “Then I’ll come back and ask for your help if this doesn’t work.”

They smile at each other, a beat too long, a beat too delayed to notice a shift in the energy between them. “Who should I ask for?” Castiel is somehow able to miraculously ask, after the moment that is a beat too long.

“Huh? Oh. Dean. Ask for Dean. That’s me, I—” The man, Dean, shakes his head as if to get himself to stop talking. He reaches out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, uh—”

“Castiel. Cas.” Castiel holds Dean’s hand and shakes. It’s warm and softer than he’d expect a gardener’s hands to be.

“Well, great. Cas.” Dean drawls Castiel’s name out thoughtfully, carefully, like tasting a fine wine. Castiel suppresses a shiver. “I’ll see you again soon, then. Maybe.”

“Maybe.” Castiel adjusts the bag in his arms. “Goodbye, Dean. Fluffy,” he adds, nodding at the cat who is ignoring the situation, and instead is stretching to great lengths in order to lick her backside.

Castiel steps out into the warm air; the bell on the door that announces his departure is less obnoxious now. He unlocks his bike, adjusting the kickstand, wincing at the creak of the rust on the metal.  

Placing his backpack carefully onto the bike seat, he opens the zipper and deposits the bag of plant food into the backpack. Very sternly, he whispers to it, “Don’t you dare work,” before zipping up his pack, and riding on the dirt road back to his new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is the [tumblr link](https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com/post/184979809209/trenchcoatandfreckles-prompt-bucolic) to this post. come say hi :)


	3. old numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @bekindplsrewind prompt: Found the phone number of an old childhood friend in some box at the back of the closet and decided to call it to see if it still worked AU.
> 
> in other words: a fluffy lil fic

 “How did you accumulate all this junk?” Sam asks. He punctuates the point by throwing a pink crop top that says “Real Women Lift Weights” at Dean’s face.

“This isn’t junk,” Dean protests, “this was from my junior year in high school.” He carefully puts the crop top on the bed, letting out a sigh. “What a time of sexual discovery.”

“God, Dean. The fact remains—” Sam dives in deeper into Dean’s closet, on his hands in knees, pushing boxes and clothes across the floor at random, “—that Mom is showing this house on Wednesday, and no one is going to want to even consider buying it with all your cluttered crap all over the place.”

Dean snatches a Spock figurine off the floor before Sam’s knee collides with it. “Your room was worse.”

“Yeah, but I cleaned it.”

Making a face at the back of his brother’s head, Dean sits cross-legged on the ground. “Fine. But I’m the final say on what’s garbage or not.”

“We’re never getting out of here,” Sam sighs. But he reluctantly passes Dean a small shoebox anyway.

Dean opens it and sneezes. It clearly hadn’t been opened since before he had to start shaving on a regular basis. He rifles through the contents: colorful paperclips, a note that a cute girl had written to him in eighth grade, a small notebook that had SAM RULES written on the front that was crossed out and modified to SAM SMELLS. Dean chuckles and launches the notebook at Sam’s head.

Not stooping to Dean’s tactics to derail the cleaning situation, Sam calmly slides another Nike shoebox in Dean’s direction.

“You’re no fun,” Dean mutters, taking the top off of the shoebox. He pauses. 

The polaroid picture staring at him from the bottom of the box all but slams into his brain, making him remember the moment like it was yesterday. Him and Cas had found a polaroid camera at a neighbor’s garage sale, but instead of buying it, they held it under their chins and took a picture with it, stealing the picture and running away with it. They giggled in Cas’ tree house as the photo slowly revealed their chins, stuck-out tongues, and wayward eyes drawn into obnoxious faces.

“Who’s that?” Sam asks over Dean’s shoulder. Dean jumps almost a foot in the air.

“Jesus, Sam, warn a guy.” Dean hastily shoves the picture back into the box. “And you remember Cas, you dumbass.”

“I was only four, Dean, give me a break,” Sam says. “That’s the kid you hung out with in Dad’s neighborhood before he sold the house, right?”

Dean softly scoffs. ‘Before Dad went off the alcoholic deep end and lost the house in a foreclosure,’ was more accurate. John had ghosted soon after that, leaving Mary with full custody of Sam and Dean. Her neighborhood was across town from Cas’.

“The last time I saw him was probably… I dunno…” Dean whistles through his teeth. “Probably when I was eight or nine.”

“I remember when you tried to run away to see him once,” Sam says. “You got a garbage bag full of your stuff and everything.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, and Mom just watched me drag that thing down the street until the bag ripped and I had to come home.”

“Overdramatic,” Sam says with a grin.

“Whatever, like you were an angel.” Dean rifles around in the box for more Cas-related stuff: broken, smoothed-over green glass they found by a creek that they were convinced were priceless jewels (they weren’t), an old broken ping pong ball they thought was a bird’s egg (again, it wasn’t), notes from Cas that were passed to Dean during class.

And a phone number.

Dean remembers the number as soon as he reads it: 555-9875. Cas had told Dean that if they ever get in trouble, or move away, they have to remember each other’s phone numbers so the other person can help. “Even when we’re adults!” Cas proclaimed from atop the slide, arms outstretched before he tumbled off the side (he did that a lot, climbing to high places, and making Dean’s too small heart already having premature attacks from fear).

“You should call it,” Sam says, again prying his big nose into Dean’s personal business.

“What? No way. It probably wouldn’t even work.”

“I dare you,” Sam offers.

“Jesus, Sam, how old are we?”

“Fine.” Sam crosses his arms. “If you call that number, I will clean out most of this closet myself, and you won’t have to lift a finger.”

Dean considers. He looks down at the frayed, yellowed paper. It’s been twenty years. It’s likely that the number is disconnected, or belongs to someone else.

“Deal,” he decides, whipping out his cell phone. “But you can’t throw away anything, okay? Not without my say.”

“I’ll get a box,” Sam sighs, rising to his feet.

Dean waits until Sam stomps out of the room before carefully dialing the number. He holds it to his ear and waits, hearing his own heartbeat vibrate the receiver.

One ring. Two. Three, until—

“Hello?” asks a voice.

Dean hesitates. It’s male, but couldn’t possibly be Cas, because the Cas he remembers had an obnoxiously pipsqueak voice, not this gravelly one that sounds like the guy just got finished chewing nails for breakfast. “Uh, hey,” he says.

There’s a beat too long of silence. “Can I help you?” the man asks again.

“Oh, yeah, well. Uh. I was just wondering—does Cas Novak still live there?”

“This is he.”

Dean’s face freezes. He gapes at Sam who has just walked back into the room. Sam’s mouth moves into a silent “What?” while Dean frantically gestures at the phone and yells silently “Cas! CAS!”

“Hello?” Cas asks over the receiver.

Sam, saving the day as usual, does a dive toward Dean and smacks him over the head with a box to stop his panic attack in its tracks.

“Oh, awesome.” Dean clears his throat. “It’s, uh—it’s Dean. Dean Winchester. I… yeah.”

The wariness in Cas’ voice is completely dropped when he repeats, “Dean? Oh my god.”

“You remember me?” Dean blurts out.

“Of course I remember you, I—” Cas laughs. Dean breathes in sharply. “This is so strange, I’m just here helping my mother move and the phone rings and—” He laughs again, more airy and bewildered. “It’s great to hear from you. What’s it been, twenty years?”

“Something like that,” Dean says. “You know, we’re moving my mom out of her house too. Must be a ‘moving your mother’ convention in town.”

Across the room, Sam groans and holds his head in his hands.

But Cas laughs, miraculously, and says, “Must be. Do you still live in town?”

“Uh, yeah. You?”

“Yes. I moved away for college, of course, but now I’m back.”

Dean smiles down at the floor. He picks at a thread of carpet. “Remember when we made a pact to go to the same college?”

“I do. In Australia, if I remember correctly.”

“Did you go to Australia?”

“No,” Cas chuckles. “Did you?”

Cheeks coloring, Dean stutters, “Uh, well, the college route—it wasn’t for me. So that’s a negative.”

“College is an ample waste of time, I don’t blame you,” Cas says. There’s a noise in the background that Dean can’t quite identify. “Dean, I’m sorry to cut this short, but my mother needs help dealing with the movers.”

“Oh, sure, Cas, no prob.” Dean looks up at Sam, who is gesticulating wildly, miming out a pen and paper like a crazy person. “Do you uh…”

“Dean—” Cas says at the same time. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No, you go,” Dean says, smacking his forehead with a palm.

“I was just—I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee. Maybe catch up. I know it’s been a while, but—”

“Yes!” Dean blurts out. He gapes at Sam, who is giving him a very enthusiastic thumbs-up. “Yeah, uh—that’d be awesome, Cas.”

He can hear the smile in Cas’ voice when he says, “Wonderful. I’ll give you my number.”

Sam digs in his pocket and flicks a pencil at Dean’s head. Dean quickly scribbles down the number Cas gives him over the phone, on the yellowed paper just under Cas’ childhood one.

“So I’ll just text you some times and days, then?” Dean asks.

“That’d be wonderful.” Cas pauses. “Thank you for calling, Dean.”

“Uh, sure, Cas. Thank you for, uh. Answering, I guess.”

Cas laughs. Dean could listen to that laugh for days. “Goodbye, Dean.”

“Ciao, Cas.” Dean flips his phone shuts and yells at it, “CIAO? Who the fuck do I think I am!?”

“We’re looking him up on Facebook!” Sam declares, making a nose-dive for his backpack. He yanks out his turn-of-the-dark-ages laptop and begins to wildly type.

Dean lays on the ground and pulls the pink crop top over his face. “That was the fucking worst thing I’ve ever done,” Dean declares.

“What’s his last name?”

“Novak,” Dean groans into the fabric. “I’m gonna text him, but he won’t text me back, because who would text back a psychopath that just randomly calls your childhood best friend’s phone number—”

“Dean,” Sam says.

“—and what if he’s the psychopath, or worse, not even Cas and he was just pretending and I meet up with him and get killed or worse he steals Baby and—”

“Dean,” Sam barks.

“What,” Dean yells back, flinging the crop top off his head.

Sam turns the laptop around and taps, hard, on the screen. “Dean, your childhood best friend is hot.”

Squinting, Dean raises his head toward the Facebook page sprawled out on the screen. There’s a picture of a very blue-eyed, very chiseled, very dark-haired man smiling in his profile picture. Dean can immediately match the voice to the face—he even recognizes remnants of young, eight-year-old Cas in between those smile lines—and his soul leaves his body for a moment.

“I need to text him immediately,” Dean says, wide eyed, to Sam.

“You need to text him immediately,” Sam agrees.

(Dean does, of course, after many beers and a lot of texting with subsequent deleting. It’s a story that Sam loves to tell at Dean and Cas’ wedding, a few years later.)


End file.
